It Was Always You
by stuphanie
Summary: Amell returns to the Circle where Cullen is in charge, but all is not as it seems, and their reunion isn't quite what Amell had in mind. Amell/Cullen one shot.


The archdemon lies dead and it is all Amell can do not to replay the scene in her mind, even five months later. Alistair struck the killing blow, and she watched her lover, her best friend, go on to marry Anora. Amell was present at the wedding, with a smile plastered to her face, her eyes glassy as she ached to tear herself away from the sickening scene that unfolded before her. Zevran nudged her side in a subtle, comforting sort of way, and that was the only gesture that made the ceremony bearable. She saw Alistair later on and he made love to her with his usual gusto and passion, but it wasn't the same. He was king and was to share a bed with another woman every night. A woman that wasn't her and the thought of it continues to make her feel sick. So she leaves the town.

She is nought but a sex toy, she thinks to herself now, as she drinks beer in the Spoiled Princess. Warm, amber liquid washes down her throat. She wants to throw it back up but keeps it down by swallowing a shot of rum. The tavern reminds her of Oghren. Smiling, she gets up and walks out, throwing a couple of coins on the bar. The dwarf would laugh at her pitiful drinking, she knows, but he has chosen his own path now and sadness hits her for the umpteenth time when she remembers that it is another companion that she won't see for a long time, if ever.

She wanders, clumsily, over to the boat the sits atop Lake Callenhad, quietly casting a reflection, almost like a spectral illusion. The boat is small and decrepit and carves a path through the dark water to the Circle Tower. Amell doesn't want to return to the dismal place that she called home for so long but she does anyway because Wynne called her in for a favour and Amell knows there are more important matters to attend to that don't involve a moody Grey Warden feeling sorry for herself.

Finally, the boat bumps against dry land. The Tower looms as formidably as ever and Amell looks up at the crumbling spectre with a heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach.

A bang of wood against stone echoes around the hall impressively when Amell enters, her face set, jaw hard. Wynne is First Enchanter now and returned shortly after the vanquishing of the Archdemon. Amell misses her motherly presence but didn't stop her from leaving. Now, the Circle requires diplomatic reasoning that only Amell can provide. An apprentice eyes her lavish robes and intricate staff and gives her a fleeting, scared look, before scuttling away.

It is just as she remembered it, when she lived here, and after Uldred: restored, the flagstones are devoid of dust, it was as if no tragedy had happened here. She walks around the perimeter of the room and only looks up when the heavy double doors leading to apprentice chambers crash open.

Wynne is striding over to her with purpose. Grey tendrils of hair frame her face that seems to have become wearier since Amella last saw her. Robes made of red cloth swirl in an aggravated manner and Amell is suddenly struck by how serious the situation is.

"I'm so glad you could come," Wynne says. Her voice is barely above a whisper and has a frantic quality about it. "Cullen – or rather, Knight-Commander, as we must refer to him now – is getting worse. His hold is almost unbearable – he won't even listen to me – and has become more cold and cruel than Greagoir ever was. Please," she adds, and she is begging, "you must speak to him. He might listen to you, and see that not all mages are as he has experienced and fears."

Amell nods and rests a comforting hand on the old woman's shoulder. "I will. Is he in his quarters?"

Wynne nods. "Yes, but he doesn't know that you are here."

"Isn't it unwise that you didn't inform him?" Amell frowns.

"I feared a shutdown of the Circle – he is almost delirious."

"Okay," Amell agrees after a short moment's pause. But I can't guarantee anything, she wants to add, but can't because the look of hope on Wynne's face is so great that the old mage almost looks to be ten years younger. It's clear that this is the first time she has probably smiled in five months.

Amell strolls through the doors and past the apprentice quarters, ignoring the gasps and points from the few mages that remain, all of them in disbelief that a Warden, or rather Hero of Fereldan, is in their midst. She resists the temptation to visit her old quarters. Sharing a room with several other mages and a lack of privacy was not something she missed, but rather those stolen moments of fun, almost normality, when she forgot that she was living in this Tower like a prisoner. All because of an accident at birth.

The stairs are more numerous than Amell remembers. Her footsteps echo eerily, the sound bouncing off the cold stone walls, rousing many curious mages to poke their heads around corners. Amell is a woman with a purpose and she knows that the templars see her as such. They stand in pairs or alone, talking or yawning to themselves, and their faces hidden by helmets turn in her direction. She wants them to stop her, to question her, because every step that takes her closer to Cullen causes her stomach to knot tighter and tighter. Eventually, she feels herself slow down, and she finds herself feeling uneasy for the first time.

She is here to talk to a templar that she could have once seen as an ally, now twisted with the hate that courses through the fibres of his soul. All because of Uldred. Amell is to negotiate the state of the Circle and the hold that Cullen now has over it. It is ludicrous and Amell almost laughs aloud. This is a matter for the King, she thinks, but even then Alistair considered it a wiser course of action for Amell to attend to it. You know him, he had said, you'll know how to handle it better than I.

She snorts derisively and suddenly finds herself outside the Knight-Commander's office. She should knock but doesn't. Instead, Amell strides in, slowly putting one foot in front of the other, and she sees that Cullen has his back to her. 300 pounds of muscle and armour, arms resting on his desk, head bowed, and only looks up when the door clicks to a close. His shield and sword are propped up against a wall in the corner of the room and Amell feels the relief wash over her that he isn't sprung to attack.

She crosses the room and he looks up at her – or rather _down_ at her – and his once-soft boyish face has hardened. His eyes hold no warmth like they used to and for a moment Amell is scared. His eyebrows are brought down into a frown, both annoyed and disbelieving, as if she isn't really there, he's hallucinating again, it's those accursed mages making him see what he wants and can't have. He is stunned, his mouth suddenly stops working, and no words force their way out.

"You," he says, his voice hoarse.

He advances towards her with surprising speed and within a moment Amell is twirling her staff in hand and is pointing it at him. The tip touches him in the chest, sparks scuttling over the metal plate. Cullen holds his hands up. This would be normally be a gesture of surrender but he is smirking at her, mocking her.

"Me," she breathes. She thrusts her staff at him until he backs away to a safe enough distance. His eyes flicker towards his weapons. "Don't."

He shrugs cockily. Amell lowers her staff but not her defence.

"What do you want?" he asks, crossing his arms.

"To talk," is all she can think of in reply.

He laughs. Harsh, forced. It doesn't suit him. "To talk?" he repeats, his voice higher pitched to mock her. "Don't you think we're passed that?"

"Please," and she finds herself almost begging. "I don't want you to do anything you will regret." It's like talking to a scared animal. Approach it too quickly and it will flee or attack. She didn't want to see Cullen do either of those things.

"I regret nothing," he hisses. He narrows his eyes. "These mages are abominations waiting to happen – you saw what Uldred became!"

"That was one person. They're not all like that – I'm not like that – you can't keep such a tight hold over them forever, they will rise up –"

"Don't tell me what I can and cannot do!" Suddenly he is yelling, eyes wide, spit flying. Crazy. Scary. "I am in charge here, not the Hero of Fereldan," his tone is mocking once again, sneering even, as if defeating a Blight is a feat any man can accomplish with his eyes shut, "and I will not be told how to exercise my authority!"

"You were hurt and scared." Contrary to Cullen's rising tone, Amell keeps calm. The wooden swirls on her staff carve grooves into her hand as she grips it hard. "Wynne is nice, she's First Enchanter, let her help."

Cullen scoffs and begins pacing like a caged lion. He ignores the way Amell points her staff at him. Or he simply doesn't notice. "These mages will do anything once they've had a taste of power – even you. They cannot fool me."

"Cullen," begins Amell, and it is the sound of her speaking his name that brings him to an abrupt halt. It breaks the spell of his delirium. He turns to face her. He has stopped pacing and he looks wary.

"Let me help," she says now. I may be the only one that can, she wants to add, though decides against it. Slowly, she lowers her staff, holstering it onto her back once again. She expects him to take advantage and charge at her but he doesn't.

"I – I wanted to kill them," he whispers. He stares at a spot over her shoulder and he succumbs to the internal battle and mental scarring that he walked away with from the destruction of the Tower. A reminder that Uldred had been real, the potential power mages could obtain, grasping at chances to consort with demons, and the images he was forced to see over and over and over again. Amell watches him uneasily, and the change in his demeanour is remarkable: his face slackens slightly and the aggressive, hunched-up way he had held his shoulders has relaxed. She pities him.

"I still do, in a way," he admits at last. He looks at Amell as if he is seeing her for the first time since she stepped into his quarters. "I don't know why I'm telling you this. You're the Hero, why are you concerning yourself with this?"

_Because I can't let you do what you're doing. Not this way._

"Because I care about the good of the mages," she tells him. "They are people, Cullen, just like you and me. Some might even say it's my duty." The word tastes bitter. It's not a word that she associates with herself, with being a Grey Warden. Not anymore.

"I…" Cullen looks pained. He tries to find the right words but can't.

"And because I care about you."

The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them and it is only then that she realises that they're true. She realises that, no matter how many times she and Alistair made love since he had become King, it was Cullen that she missed. Alistair had filled the void for some time and it was only now he was betrothed to another that her feelings for Cullen are coming to light. She misses him. She pities him. She remembers how sweet he could be, bringing her morsels of food when she had been sent to bed by Greagoir without dinner, sneaking her hard candies she'd had a bad day. He _blushed_; he sneaked glances at her when he thought she wasn't looking.

And now, the gentle templar – if a templar can even be considered as such – she'd once known had transformed into this hulking mass of muscle and armour and hate and fear. But, watching him in his vulnerable state now, resigned to the reality of his actions, she feels her emotions come rushing back to her.

Cullen sits heavily on his desk. He rubs his face wearily with his hands as if trying to cleanse himself.

"I saw… things," he murmurs. "It was torture; I can't even begin to explain…"

"So don't."

Feeling that it is safe enough to do so, she approaches him, slowly. She wants to hold him – surely that should be the other way around? – but his armour not only serves as protection, but as a barrier against her, and any tender gesture she can offer.

"I'm here," she says softly.

"I almost wish you weren't." His brow furrows at the look of confusion on her face. "I tried to get over you. I think that's where I went wrong, with all this. A mere distraction gone too far…"

He hangs his head again and Amell cups his chin and lifts his face upwards. She looks into dreamy brown eyes and sees the torture behind them, like they are a window to his soul. The old Cullen is in there somewhere… there needs to be a way to bring him back…

She's been looking at him for too long, she realises, because a gauntleted hand is clutching her waist and another is wrapped around her wrist, not hard but firm, so that she can't pull away. He's trying to ensure that she is real, she realises, for his hand leaves her waist and cups her cheek. Cullen strokes the peachiness of her skin. He had ached to touch her for so long that he wonders if he's dreaming. The demons had made him imagine situations like this repeatedly and he wants to ensure this is a blissful reality.

"Can – can I…?" he stammers and suddenly he is back to the blushing young blond templar he once was.

Despite herself, Amell smiles weakly. "Yes," though she doesn't entirely know what she is agreeing to. Just like her, to make decisions, and agree with everything. Speak now, think later. Let everyone else do the reasoning.

Nervously, Cullen braces her neck with his hand and leans up so that their faces are a mere inch apart. Her breath is sweet like the candies she eats on her travels and slightly sour from the beer she had gulped down in order to gain some courage before she had come here. Then his lips are on hers and she tastes as divine as he had imagined. He kisses with a hesitancy that she never experienced with Alistair. The latter was eager and clumsy and his fingers fumbled with the ties on her robes whereas Cullen's hands are nimble. He knows what he is doing and Amell can tell that he has practiced this in his head Maker knows how many times.

She kisses him back passionately because she hopes it will make him forget the hate he has accumulated and remember that mages aren't the evil incarnate that he thinks they are. She wants him to know that there is some good left in the world. That he is allowed feel pleasure and love and happiness.

Cullen unties her robes and they fall to the floor with a heavy flump. Delicate material fans out at her feet. He peers shamelessly at her naked body on show.

"Maker," he breathes. He bends down to untie her boot laces but she flinches away.

"Don't."

He says nothing, and begins kissing her harder, desperate to have her rather than to argue. His armour presses into her, cold, unforgiving, the jagged edges like daggers against the soft pouches of skin and flesh. Without breaking contact, he undoes his gauntlets, flinging them across the room, following by his chestplate and skirts which crash to the floor. Amell winces at the loud noises, momentarily startled, until Cullen lifts her and wraps her legs around his waist.

She's on his desk now, looking up at him, breathing hard from their kiss. A hard something pokes her core. Her powerful legs pull him closer to her and she realises how much she needs him. Sighs rush through the room when he enters her, slowly, inch by inch, until he is buried in her depths.

"Maker," Cullen whispers again, because it's the only word he can manage during this blissful moment, and because it's the closest to any heaven that he's ever been. Amell is tight and warm and welcoming and with every thrust her nails dig harder into his biceps.

She bucks up to meet him while he kisses, sucks, and licks her neck, down to her collarbones and then on each breast. It feels wonderful. It reminds her of Alistair, in a bizarre way: Cullen is muscly and peppered with battle scars – he moves in a fluid way that tells her that he is taking his time. Amell bites her lip to stop herself from whimpering aloud, a habit she picked up from sharing a camp with several other people.

Cullen's pace quickens and he throws her legs over his shoulders. He hits her deep and she feels the familiar tightness coiling in her lower abdomen. Feeling him slam into her repeatedly, Amell twitches just before she comes, arching her back off the hard wooden top of the desk. Cullen follows shortly, spilling his seed into her. He exhales heavily followed by a long, guttural groan. The instant he catches his breath he rolls off her and gets to his feet. Amell props herself up on her elbows, watching him pull on his smallclothes, her eyebrows raised. His ears are pink as he tries to make himself decent. He's still as shy as ever, she muses, and hopes that it is bashfulness rather than shame that is making him dress so quickly.

When neither of them speak, she stands and swathes herself in her robes once again.

"I… have wanted that for a long time," he admits at last.

"That wasn't why I came here," she tells him firmly. As much as she doesn't want to continue their previous discussion, it is the reason for her presence.

"I know," he says irritably, irked that she has reminded him. He sighs and runs a hand through his blond curls. "But I think my way is for the best."

"You can't possibly still think that!"

"You are one mage, Amell, and you are not like the frightened apprentices whose magic bursts out of them unexpectedly!"

"Which is why it is _your_ duty to make them feel safe, and the First Enchanter's duty to teach them!" Amell feels electricity crackle at her finger tips in her ire.

"I won't sit by and watch them become abominations."

They glare at each other for a few long moments.

"Cullen?" Amell asks, a startling return to her soft manner.

"Hmm?"

"Do you love me?"

He gapes at her. He sense a trap but does not know how to avoid it. If he answers no, he's a dead man; if yes, then that gives her room to exploit the situation. So he doesn't answer.

"I know you do, and have since I lived here," she answers for him. She walks over to him and she's close, too close. His breath hitches in his throat and he feels his crotch stir. "If you do this for me, I will forever be in your debt to make it up to you. But if you do not," she adds, and her voice his heavy, "then say goodbye to me forever. I will walk out of here and not come back, for you, or for anyone."

_She's blackmailing me_, he thinks, _or giving me an ultimatum_.

"I want these mages safe, looked after, as they should be. The Tower should not be a prison, Cullen, even you know that. Those days when you would come into my room to see me meant more than you will ever know." She places her hands on his bare chest. Fingers lace through the blond hairs there, tightly curled, and he sighs despite himself.

The answer, he knows, is yes, that he does love her. It is unthinkable, for a templar to have feelings for a mage, but he has had all these years to overcome it, yet could not. He remembers when Amell was in the tower, the butterflies he felt, and how he had so fantasised about her. After lusting for her for so long, isn't it time he accepts his love, rather than bottle it up? For he fears that suppressing his love was what caused him to be so hateful, so afraid not just of mages, but finding one that reminded him of her, of loving another.

"And if you're in my debt?" he asks quietly, looking down at her, observing the way her caramel coloured hair parted to one side. "What then?"

Deep blue eyes meet his brown ones. "Let's start with this."

And now she's kissing him with as much passion as she could muster, and though he doesn't notice immediately, is tainting their kiss with tears. They break apart and she sees the hardness that remains in his eyes and knows that this will never work, that her ministrations had been for nought. She needs to act now, say something, anything, before it's too late, for she knows the Cullen that she once knew is gone, replaced by this new Cullen with a lump of ice for a heart when it came to mages. All mages, except for her, but she can't allow it to be just her, because she knows, deep in her heart, that Cullen will abandon his pledge and rule the Tower with an iron fist like he had been doing. She doesn't want to be an exception to the rules, because what's selfless about that? Old habits die hard. She knew that better than anyone.

"I've always loved you," she breathes, tears leaving tracks down her cheeks.

He gives her only a brief look of confusion before she zaps him with electricity that had been building up inside her, rendering him immobile, then slowly pulling a dagger out from her boot that he had overlooked and plunges it into his chest. His eyes widen and shock and hurt register on his face momentarily until he drops heavily to the ground.

Amell kneels next to his lifeless body, sobbing on his chest, the man she had first trusted and since come to love.

Amell is crying, because it is all for the greater good.


End file.
